


Burn

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Lokiarty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 13:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which the Consulting Criminal snatched the God of Mischeif out of SHIELD headquarters before he got sent home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

“Leave him.”

“Sir, he’s -”

“Leave him Seb or I’ll make you put the muzzle on.”

Moran dropped his gaze, brown eyes lingering on Moriarty’s polished shoes.

“Yes sir,” he breathed, knitting his eyebrows together, mind jumping through hoops as he evaluated the best place for him to stand in wait, searching for the crevice that provided the quickest response time.

“Oh, I don’t need a nanny Sebastian you’ll wait where I tell you to,” Jim purred out his name, the finality of the phrase sticking like a sliver of glass in the dead center of his chest. The twinge of pain as it hits it’s mark spread like wildfire to his heart. What had given him away? The way his eyes had been shifting? The particular stitch on those shoes he’d been staring at? The tilt of his head? The beat of his pulse? Jim always knew, and the blossom of pride that swelled in him served only to irritate his wound.

“Yes sir,” Sebastian managed, eyes fixed on Jim’s footwear, right thumb tracing a steady line down the curve of the metal gag he cupped in his hands. He felt wet heat, and guessed that his digit had found a niche in which godly blood had pooled. Seb didn’t look, he could picture blood easily enough.

Moriarty rolled his neck, closing his eyes as he did so, opening them one after the other to see his loyal dog padding away, gag still in hand, head hung low, the worry of the world perched on his shoulders. He stepped over the form curled on the floor, letting his right toe brush against the folds of fabric as it followed his left. Oh how territorial, Jim thought, passing his tongue over his bottom lip in thought, plotting to dangle the gesture over his blonde little head when he needed to humiliate the man. Well…when he wanted to humiliate the man.

A moment passed, and Sebastian disappeared, closing the slim metal door behind him, leaving Moriarty alone with his guest and his whims.  
Jim sunk a canine into the left corner of his mouth, eyes sweeping the room, a wide expanse of dirty concrete and low ceiling, support beams dangling cobwebs like old nooses. Admittedly, the setting was cliché, but remote, effective. Trust Sebby to put practicality into body snatching. He tucked his arms behind him, grasping his left hand with his right, striding slowly toward the disturbingly still form on the floor across from him. As he drew nearer, his smile grew, as though a creature biting at his lips drew them apart, keeping his eyes cold.

Jim stepped over the man his pet had brought him, imagining the delicious way those eyes would follow him beneath closed lids. He stood still a moment, back to the not-sleeping god, mind skipping over the various thoughts that could be dancing in his pretty Norse head. Ah yes, his _pretty_ Norse head, his pretty I’d-like-it-mounted-on-my-wall Norse head. Moriarty turned slowly, pivoting on his heels, and took three slow, languid steps towards his quarry, making sure to rest both feet on his hair and shift them sharply when he didn’t get a response. Despite himself, the deity winced, sending blood bubbling past his lips.

Ooh, he was damaged goods he was.

Jim kicked his head.

He gasped, eyes cracking open from the shock, bloodied mouth and panting breath making a mess of things. Along his lips ran deep incisions, short parallel strokes where metal had interfered with wily flesh. As those damaged floodgates parted, Jim saw his tongue bore three similar gashed, straight through the skin and into the muscle, leaving the appendage lame and unusable.

Moriarty couldn’t help himself, “Oh, Liesmith, cat got your tongue?” he drawled, eyes fixed to the blood streaming from his oral wounds.  
His tongue writhed in its chamber, whether from pain or failed attempts at speech he couldn’t discern. The rest of his face wasn’t exactly mint condition either, small surface wounds peppered his pallid complexion, as if they’d been gently arranged. Potpourri at a wedding, bodies on a snowy field. The wounds were becoming, _oh how they suit you. . ._ But they’d disappear soon enough, metal was a formidable force, but a mortal one.

“Don’t tell me you’re giving me the silent treatment,” he said, placing the sole of his left shoe on the god’s chin, dragging it along his skin before pressing down harder to turn his head. Jim met his eyes and opened his mouth with his foot, mesmerized by how ruined it was, “that’s not very nice is it? I rescued you,” he purred, mouth lax, smile internalized.

The fallen god gave a feeble response, shifting his long legs almost spasmodically, as though the basest of his instincts urged them to squirm. Jim pressed down harder on his chin, pressing his lower jaw into his neck, hearing him choke, seeing blood spew from his mouth as he gurgled in protest. His eyelids, heavy with pain and exhaustion, burst wide open, revealing the webbing of scarlet threads that had bloomed in the whites of his eyes. They were pleading at him.

Fondly, Jim recalled a fairer face had once born the same expression. They became resilient with time, like leather that gives instead of cracks. They became dull…

With a sharp jerk of his leg Jim released his head, sending it rocking back to rest on its occiput, gravity pulling the blood down his throat and making him gag, fear and pain preventing him from shifting positions. He moaned, thin and whining, Jim wondered if beneath the irritating pitch he’d sown a prayer.

“They were going to take you home Laufeyson,” he said, eyes dragging over his body, seeing the twitches of his long fingers, the muscles dancing in his long legs. Moriarty took a step back, dragging his right foot against his hair, enough to pull at his skin but not to move his head. He began circling around him, slowly, thoughtfully, mouth hanging open greedily, eyes etching patterns on his skin. He was a tangle of sinew and leather, every part of him slender, every part of him breakable. He was intimidating, even mewling on his back; his length of limb and definition of brow made him a regal bounty if a shredded one. “Just imagine how they would’ve treated you there.”  
Jim stopped at his feet, an arms length away, and watched him lie still.

“BE GRATEFUL LAUFEYSON,” he screamed, rage raking against his features like a funeral shroud. Just as suddenly as it came, his ire ebbed and a smile splayed across his mouth, leaving his eyes empty again, “I’ve gone through a lot of trouble to get you here.”

There was a moment of silence between them, Loki’s whimpers breaking through like static on a muted radio. Slowly, pace measured and thoughts racing, Jim continued along his path, circling up along the god’s left side, pausing near his head, toes in line with the curve of his shoulder. He lowered himself slowly, crouching next to his quarry, letting his right hand drop lamely onto his face to trace the contour of his cheek bone. As he dragged his hand down he let his middle finger catch on the Liesmith’s bloodied lip, fingertip touching his bottom canine.  
Loki’s eyes slid down to the intrusive digit, brows twitching slightly in confusion at the tenderness of Moriary’s touch. He watched with disturbed curiosity as Jim lifted his hand to smear the blood stained finger across his bottom lip. His dark eyes clouded, abysmal and impossible to read.  
Moriarty lowered his hand again, this time to reach over and cup the left side of Loki’s face, letting the soft tissue over his trapezium joint push down the aesir’s lip and his blood to stain his skin.

Their eyes met, and both were unsure of what they saw in the other’s.

With the same vapid pace as moments before, Morairty smoothed his hand down to the back of Loki’s head, tangling his fingers into his hair. It had gotten too long - exile left little time for grooming – and that side of his scalp still ached from the abuse put to it by Jim’s shoes not minutes ago. But the hand was gentle, fingers shifting lightly until they found a comfortable hold on Loki’s skull, supporting it off the unforgiving ground. Moriarty looked at him fondly, feeling the streak of blood dry on his lip.

He tightened his grip on the deity’s hair, grasping at the roots to avoid paining him more than was necessary. Well, more than was necessary in this particularly painful way of bearing a man’s weight. Moriarty stood, dragging the god up with him, fingers firm in his locks, palm cupping the base of his skull, eyes holding his gaze.

Loki gasped softly, blank expression making the noise impossible to read. The pain in his scalp caused his right hand to shoot out to Jim’s thigh, pawing at the material of his pant leg, half to support his weight, half to distract from the intense discomfort in his head. Clumsily, he managed to balance on his knees, left arm pushed against his captor’s right leg, right hand still clutching a fold of expensive fabric.  
Jim raised his arm slightly, keeping the God of Mischeif’s head upright, stretching out his pale neck, staring at his bleeding mouth. They locked eyes, Loki’s sadly dulled by the trauma of the evening. In that moment Jim felt the familiar drop in the core of his heart, the strike dealt straight to his hopes, _He’s the same as all the others…_

Then Loki licked him.

It was sudden, tentative, and it left a smear of blood and spit on the crotch of a pair of pants worth ten Tricksters and a dozen of his oafish brothers.

But it was good.

Moriarty hoisted Loki up further, crushing his left temple against his hip bone, forcing one eye shut against the fabric of his suit.  
The Liesmith licked him again, a slow, drawn out lap, made longer and clumsier by the odd angle of his face.

Jim let out a breath, curling his toes inside his Prada loafers,crushing Loki’s skull against himself, trapping the wet heat of his tongue in the crook of his thigh, wishing almost that the blood he trailed would leak onto his skin. The god cried out in pain as the lips of his wounds were pulled open. Quickly, though reluctantly, Moriarty loosened his grip, instead using his hand to steady the Trickster against him, feeling his right hand squeeze against his leg either in gratitude or for leverage.

With a warm sigh, Loki closed his eyes, nuzzling into the seam on Moriarty’s leg, breath ragged and welcomed against his thigh. Jim ran his tongue along his bottom lip, surprised at the taste of Asgardian blood that met him; tenderly, he stroked the Liesmith’s head with his thumb, taking note of the swelling caused by his earlier assault. There would be more, in good time.

“You’ll do Aesir,” he murmured darkly, feeling the tension in his arm as Loki’s legs began to give, “You’ll do…”

**Author's Note:**

> This is indeed a repost from my tumblr, but I'm quite proud of how it turned out so I figured it earned a spot here as well. I sincerely hope you agree, and thank you so much for reading 'til the end. I've noticed that Lokiarty is a ship with a small and motley crew, and can only hope that support for it will grow. It's become a bit of an OTP. Well. . .I say 'a bit'. . .


End file.
